


until the hour of separation

by kaci3PO



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Polyamory, Post-3x05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-08 00:35:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14682783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaci3PO/pseuds/kaci3PO
Summary: They haven't slept together since they came back—or remembered, rather—which Eliot is secretly thankful for. After so long living in Fillory, nothing on Earth feels quite real yet. Maybe it's the lifetime of memories, or maybe it's the sudden lack of opium in the air, but Eliot's found himself out-drinking even his own expectations. If anything is going to happen between them in this timeline, he doesn't want it to be when he's so lushed out that he can't even remember it.Hehasto remember it. Remembering is the only way to keep any of it alive.





	until the hour of separation

When Quentin begins to court Arielle, Eliot is sure that their thing is over. He's known Quentin for years now, and surely any intrigue Eliot must've once held for him has long since worn off. Intrigue, after all, does not outlast a year of living in a fantasy land where showers and good dental hygiene are in short supply.

 

But it's _not_ over. At first, Quentin keeps it separate — only sharing Eliot's bed when he's not with Arielle. But once they're married, Arielle moves in to their little cottage and there is no separation anymore. There couldn't be. There's no such thing as privacy in the confines of such a small space.

 

The conversation Eliot expects ("I'm married now, we have to stop this,") isn't the one he gets, at all.

 

("Eliot, uhm, so, you're married. To a woman. Who you impregnated."

 

"Not yet, technically. Not sure if Fen's even been born yet, here, in this Fillory. But in our own personal timelines, I concede your point."

 

"And back at Brakebills, when we were drunk on emotions, you, me, and Margo—"

 

"What are you getting at, Q?"

 

"Just...you've been with a shocking amount of women for a gay guy."

 

"Who said I was gay?"

 

That, truly, had startled Quentin, so much so that his mouth had actually fallen open.

 

"... _aren't you?!_ "

 

" _Mostly_. It's like Thai food...")

 

After that, there is no separation. Sure, sometimes he and Quentin fuck when Arielle's otherwise busy, just as he's sure Quentin and Arielle get up to things while he's not around, but they don't tiptoe around it any more. They share one bed and Quentin kisses the both of them goodnight in it. Neither of them are Kings of Fillory yet, but for all intents and purposes, they each find themselves with both a husband and a wife (albeit a wife whom Quentin beds far more often than Eliot does) and the arrangement actually works for them, as unexpected as it might have been. When their son is born, they're not actually sure if Quentin or Eliot is the biological father, though none of them really care. Eliot relishes the opportunity for a second chance at fatherhood just the same.

 

These are the things Eliot remembers, after.

 

After, "I died."

 

After, "We had a family."

 

He remembers Arielle's hand, so strong in his as he held it through her labor pains. He remembers Quentin's tears on his neck as the weight of their lives outside of Fillory slipping away crushed him underneath. He remembers the pride in his chest, so bright it felt like he might burst with it, as he and Quentin watched their son set out to live a life of his own.

 

They had _grandchildren_. Beautiful boys and girls who somehow had Quentin's eyes and Eliot's chin and Arielle's beautiful smile. God, he'd loved them.

 

All of them.

 

 _Both_ , in slightly different ways.

 

***

 

"It's like being in love with a character from a story," Quentin whispers one night, curled up in Eliot's lap and clutching at his wrist. "It isn't real now, any of it. It never happened."

 

"You'd think _you'd_ at least have been prepared for something like this. Loving fictional things that turn out to be real is kind of your whole nerdy fanboy _thing_."

 

"This is the opposite, though," Quentin murmurs. "Something real that turned out to be fictional."

 

"Hmm," Eliot hums in agreement. "That's true."

 

They haven't slept together since they came back—or remembered, rather—which Eliot is secretly thankful for. After so long living in Fillory, nothing on Earth feels quite real yet. Maybe it's the lifetime of memories, or maybe it's the sudden lack of opium in the air, but Eliot's found himself out-drinking even his own expectations. If anything is going to happen between them in this timeline, he doesn't want it to be when he's so lushed out that he can't even remember it.

 

He _has_ to remember it. Remembering is the only way to keep any of it alive.

 

"I miss her," Quentin admits, his voice rising with every word. "And our son. And our grandkids and our cottage and— fuck, Eliot, I even miss that _stupid, fucking mosaic_."

 

"Now, now," Eliot says, with as grave a voice as he can muster. "Let's not go that far."

 

"I kissed you on that mosaic." Quentin's voice is suddenly so quiet Eliot has to strain to hear it. "Our blood, sweat, and tears went into that mosaic."

 

"Mainly tears."

 

Quentin laughs, a tiny gentle huff of breath that feels like the world's biggest victory to Eliot.

 

"Speaking of which," Eliot presses his luck, "you couldn't have figured out how to solve it _before_ I died?"

 

He doesn't get the laugh he's hoping for this time. "Don't. I lost both of you."

 

"I'm sorry." Eliot runs his fingers through Quentin's hair, gently combing it back off his face. His thigh is starting to go numb from where Quentin's head has been laying on it for the last twenty minutes, but he can't find it in himself to make Quentin sit up.

 

"I know. I just— I thought about going back. To Fillory-now, to see...I don't know. If she's even still alive."

 

"She wouldn't be our Arielle," Eliot states needlessly.

 

"She probably hates us in this timeline, for being bad rulers," Quentin mutters darkly.

 

"That's probably true," Eliot answers agreeably. "We've been pretty shit at it."

 

"Why haven't you kissed me since we got back?" Quentin asks, seemingly apropos of nothing.

 

"I—" Eliot hesitates, then goes for the easier answer. "Last time I kissed you in this timeline, it didn't really end well. Besides, you haven't kissed me, either."

 

Quentin sits up and takes Eliot's hand in his. "This is so— it's ridiculous, is what it is. I remember being _in love_ with you."

 

"As opposed to before, when you were just dazzled by my wit and charming good looks."

 

He shouldn't keep trying to change the tone of the conversation; he knows that. He just can't see a way for any of this to end well if Quentin keeps talking. Eliot is still the High King of Fillory in this timeline. He still has a wife and maybe a fiance, and the entire weight of another world on his shoulders. And Quentin… he has no idea how Quentin can reconcile having a lifetime to move on from past romances and forge two new ones with suddenly being back in a timeline where he loves two of the strongest women either of them will ever know.

 

Even if they decided to be together now, how strange would that be? How hurtful? ("Sorry, Alice, I know for you everything is so raw and painful but I had a lifetime in Fillory to have a happy polyamorous family complete with grandkids, and I just don't feel those same things for you anymore." Pass.)

 

"El. Do you—"

 

"You can't ask me that, Quentin."

 

"You were my husband. We raised a child together. A family. You said it to me a million times in Fillory."

 

"And it's _because_ of Fillory that we shouldn't," Eliot sighs. He carefully extricates himself from Quentin and crosses the room just to put distance between them. It helps him think, helps him remember the difference between being a King of Fillory and being the _High King_ of Fillory.

 

A wry smile crosses Quentin's lips. "Are you telling me that I'm being cockblocked by my childhood fantasy land?" He looks like he wants to laugh. "How the _fuck_ are our lives this ridiculous?"

 

The tension in the room breaks and Eliot laughs with him, shoulders nearly sagging with relief. "Yeah, well—" he starts, but is cut off as Quentin crosses the room and kisses him.

 

How can it be possible to kiss Quentin and feel like coming home when in this timeline, in these bodies, the only time they've ever done it before was that ill-fated hook up with Margo?

 

It takes everything he has to get a hand between them and gently push Quentin away.

 

"Q…"

 

"Tell me to stop," Quentin whispers. He sounds like he's nearly begging. "Tell me that it wasn't real. That it didn't actually happen. That I've just fallen in love with another fantasy."

 

Eliot swallows roughly. Quentin has had decades of experience of yearning for a place, a time, a reality that wasn't ever real. He could probably get over this, if Eliot put his foot down and walked away.

 

But he doesn't.

 

Eliot ducks down, and kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic began life as a document entitled "this is garbage i will never actually finish but it's the first time i've been inspired to write in more than a year so here we are" which I think just about sums up why I'm posting it even though I'm not quite happy with the way it turned out.
> 
> Anyway, read the books years ago, put off watching the show because I was afraid they'd mishandle Julia's story line. Decided to give it a go and then this happened. Now off I go back into my self-imposed writing exile.


End file.
